


Adventures in CecilSpace

by punkrockgaia



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Carlos is a Dork, Carlos is a bit of an intellectual snob, Cecil is a Dork, Cecil is a bit naiive, Developing Relationship, M/M, Spoilers from "One Year Later" on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-11-08
Packaged: 2017-12-30 08:50:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkrockgaia/pseuds/punkrockgaia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlos visits Cecil's apartment, and learns new things about him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Contact

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Cecilos fic! :) I know there are some other REALLY GOOD fics out there where Carlos shows up at Cecil's place unexpectedly, so I hope I have a unique take on this theme... I'm hoping to expand this to a few more chapters. Thanks for all the awesome work and inspiration, Cecilos shippers!

Carlos pulled his hybrid in front of the apartment building and carefully parallel-parked under a humming streetlight. Well, it wasn't an apartment building, exactly. Rather, it was an big, old, crumbling house that had been carved up into a number of apartments, one of which belonged to Cecil. 

He hesitated before getting out of the car. He hadn't planned this visit. He'd driven there almost automatically. He knew where Cecil lived (he'd made a habit of dropping his address at the slightest provocation), but he'd never actually gone into the apartment itself. He wasn't sure he wanted to.

It wasn't that he didn't find Cecil attractive, quite the opposite... At first, sure, he'd found him weird and off-putting, but now he found him attractive, and interesting and entertaining and charming and... And all those things made Cecil the first person he'd thought of when he woke on the sticky linoleum floor of the Desert Flower Bowling Alley and Arcade Fun Complex, realizing that he hadn't died. In a rush of adrenaline and emotion, he'd texted him, and then they'd met in the Arby's parking lot. Knees had been touched and strange, eerie lights had been watched, and careful, measured confessions had been tentatively broached. And, the next day, a date had been made. A date that, once the hormones started to subside and Carlos' rational mind had once again taken over, hadn't seemed like such a great idea.

Despite his misgivings, the date had gone very well. Sure, it had been riddled with the kind of Night Vale strangeness that Carlos was disturbed to realize he was becoming accustomed to, but it ended with a sweet kiss that still made him tingle when he thought of it. And that was the problem. He'd been half-hoping the date would go badly, so badly that Cecil would lose interest in him and he'd lose interest in Cecil, and he'd be able to make a clean break. But it hadn't, and now he was in a predicament -- he had no intention of staying in Night Vale (he lived for science, but honestly, a few prestigious journal articles and a guest spot on Nova and he was _gone_ ), and so he had no intention of getting attached to anyone in the strange, dusty town, or anyone anywhere else, for that matter.

He hadn't been born a cold person, but things had happened. In high school, he'd been a laboratory-bound science geek, with his desires nothing more than whispers into his lonely night time pillow and intimacy an impossible dream. When he'd gotten to college, he'd fallen in love for the first time, in love with someone who (he thought) he'd love forever. It had given him the strength to come out to his religious family. They cut him off completely, but that love had given him the solace to get through it -- until his lover left him for one of their professors and the promise of a coveted teaching assistant position, leaving him with neither a lover nor family. Things like that make the heart grow a callus. 

The few relationships he'd had since graduate school had been short-lived, and, frankly, primarily physical transactions. Not that he thought of himself as a love 'em and leave 'em type, it was just that his existence was a solitary, nomadic life of the mind, one that he'd adapted to and over time, learned to relish. He might need the occasional warm body to provide friction, but that was just physiology. His heart was safe, his prison comfortable. He'd had no need of tender emotions; the pursuit of knowledge was the only lover he needed.

But now, now he'd met the first real challenge to his self-imposed isolation in years, in the form of an endearingly eccentric and alluring and sweet and velvet-voiced radio news jockey. There was so much danger in it! He'd been avoiding him ever since that night, that kiss.

He'd made up his mind to just drive around for a while and maybe go to the diner, so as to avoid any complications, when he heard that very same velvet voice calling to him. He turned his head and saw Cecil waving to him broadly from a brightly-lit upstairs window.

"Carlos! Perfect Carlos, is that you? Have you come to visit me?"

Carlos was a lonely, solitary man, but he wasn't a cruel man. Now that he'd been spotted, he couldn't just drive off, knowing that Cecil would be crushed if he did. No, now he had no choice but to go in. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the car, then looked up, squinting at the wildly-gesticulating figure picked out against the Night Vale void.

"Uh, yes, for -- for just a little bit. If you don't mind, of course."

"Neat!" Cecil chirped. "It's Apartment 217."

"Yes, I know. You told me before."

Cecil gave a little gasp of pleasure. "And you remembered! Thoughtful, thoughtful Carlos. Okay, you go through the front door, then up the stairs, then take a left, and... Oh, I'm being silly. Let me come down and show you." He popped back in the window and disappeared from view.

Carlos climbed up on the creaking front porch, shaking his head slightly. From the looks of it, the building couldn't have more than eight or ten apartments. He figured he could probably find the right one. But, Cecil was nothing if not enthusiastic, so let him play tour guide and have his fun.

A moment later, a breathless Cecil appeared in the large window of the heavy, oaken front door, and Carlos felt his heart give a little pitter-pat. His light blond hair was standing up every which way, he was flushed, and stubble stood out on his even-featured face. The lenses of his black browline glasses were smudged with fingerprints and sat a bit crookedly, as if they'd been grabbed off a side table and hastily jammed on. As he thew open the door, Carlos saw that he was wearing a pair of silk pajamas and a silk dressing-gown, which might have looked elegant were they not fractally-patterned in several eye-searing colors, all of which clashed violently with each other. He was _completely_ adorable.

"Beautiful Carlos," Cecil said, in his warm, mellifluous voice, and looked him up and down.

Carlos felt his cheeks redden in the face of Cecil's effusive admiration. "Uh, hi, Cecil." He'd felt uncharacteristically relaxed during their date, so why did he feel so tongue-tied now?

"I'm so glad you've come to visit. Let me show you the place." He turned and gestured for Carlos to follow him, and Carlos complied. 

As they stepped through the door into the foyer, Carlos, even experienced as he'd become at taking the uncanny in stride, goggled. The foyer was timeworn and had seen better days. It had a scuffed parquet floor, a few dying ferns in cheap faux-brass urns, and that odd cabbage soup and mildew smell that all old apartment buildings gather in public spaces. That was nothing unusual; Carlos himself had lived in a half-dozen such places from Boston to Bogota. The odd thing about this particular foyer was that it appeared to be as large as the entire house looked to be from the street. Larger, even. Standing in the feeble pool of light at the door, he could only just barely see the far wall. He peered into shadowy corners, hearing the scuttling of something much heftier than your garden-variety rat. He was just about to pull out his tape recorder and begin taking notes when he was jerked out of his reverie by Cecil pulling on the sleeve of his lab coat.

"C'mon, let's get upstairs before the staircase decides to move. It's _such_ a pain to find it again when it does that. These old houses do shift, you know." He rolled his vaguely violet, approximately amethyst, possibly periwinkle eyes and shrugged in a "whaddaya gonna do?" gesture. 

"Sure." Carlos had learned to save his questions for another time, as they generally just led to more questions, not just with Cecil, but with every citizen of his temporary hometown. He followed Cecil's anarchically-hued back up a dusty staircase that was at least wide enough for six linebackers to ascend without bumping shoulders. They walked for a much longer time than seemed probable, then finally made it to the second floor. No wonder Cecil had been out of breath when he got to the door! 

At the top of the stairs, they turned to the left, just as Cecil had said, but instead of finding themselves at his door, they then took a right, then another right, then a left. They passed by door after door as they did. Were there even enough people in Night Vale to necessitate so many apartments? Most of the doors were your standard wooden jobs, but there were some that were stained glass, one that was a bead curtain that swayed in a warm breeze scented with coconut, sea spray, and garam masala, and one that was metal that seemed to bulge and pulse menacingly, with an acrid smog that poured from beneath it.

Carlos edged away from the disturbing door and addressed the back of Cecil's head. "Cecil, your building is architecurally... interesting."

Cecil stopped and smiled at him, pleased, before setting off again at a rapid clip, down the faded wool carpet of the hall. "Yes, isn't it?" He gestured toward cobweb-strewn moldings. "A member of City Council built it back in 1886, with his or her own appendages. About 20 years ago they got tired of it and sold it to get a prefab in one of the developments. Everybody needs a change of scenery every century or so, I guess."

"It's, uh, bigger than I thought."

"How observant of you! That's part of the design -- it's got a small footprint, so it's more energy-efficient, and you save on the property tax! Not that the City Council has to pay property tax, but I'm sure it was a selling-point -- Oh! Here we are."

Cecil stopped in front of a nondescript, scarred wooden door, with shiny brass letters proclaiming it to be number 217. Cecil rummaged around in the pocket of his robe for a moment, then produced what looked to be a shard of blackened, twisted metal and turned it in the keyhole. Cecil opened the door and stepped aside, throwing his arms wide in a ta-dah! gesture.

The door opened onto a living room that was smallish, cozy, and somehow decorated in a way that exactly fit Cecil, like a Midwestern grandmother (spindly end tables and a floral-print sofa, a painting of a sad-eyed puppy) had decorated a Dodge City bordello (velvet, leather and a large cow skull) using props left over from "The Maltese Falcon" (a chipped metal typing table with a moody, dim, brass gooseneck lamp and Underwood typewriter; nearby, an honest-to-god fedora with an honest-to-god press pass sticking out of it) and the Vincent Price version of "The Raven" (a taxidermied raven). It smelled of incense and black pepper and oranges and strong coffee, just the way Cecil had smelled as Carlos leaned in for a kiss at the end of their date. Despite the jumble of furniture, odd assortment of animal skeletons and unidentifiable, gooey-looking things in jars that appeared to be serve as some sort of knick-knack, the room so comfortably gave off an aura of Cecil-ness that Carlos found himself wanting nothing more than to curl up on the couch for a nap. _I have to get out of this crazy house of a town before I'm damaged for life,_ he thought.

Turning around to take it all in, he found himself facing a suddenly-unsure Cecil. 

"So, uh, Carlos, what brings you here? Did you miss me? Oh, dear. No, wait, forget I said that, I --" He blushed fetchingly and looked down, scuffing at the wooden floor with the toe of his slipper.

Carlos didn't know how to answer. The truth was that he _had_ missed him, but he didn't want to talk about that, and besides, that wasn't actually the reason he'd come by, per se. 

"Well, uh, it seems the Secret Police have kicked me out of my lab, temporarily."

"Oh?" Cecil cocked his head to the side.

"Yes, they said, uh, they said they'd gotten an anonymous tip, and that they had to conduct a search, and that I'd better 'make like a tree and wither, providing the nonbeliever no shelter from the scourging sun.' I wasn't sure what that meant, but I figured I'd better leave them alone, so I came over here. They said they'd text me when they were done."

Cecil embraced him heartily. "Oh, Perfect Carlos. You're really fitting in very well to our scrappy, can-do little city."

"How so?"

"The Sheriff's Secret Police is searching your lab? They only do that to people they really like. Why, they've ransacked my apartment five times this year! Of course, I _am_ a local personality, so I suppose I get a bit of special treatment."

"R-ransacked?" Carlos had a mental image of broken beakers and sensitive equipment upended, and shuddered.

"Well, lightly ransacked. It usually only takes a week or so to clean up the mess." He waved his hand dismissively. "Would you like something to drink? Tea? An armagnac?"

"I'm going to get going as soon as they text me, so I think I'd better stick to the tea."

Cecil's smile faltered for just a moment, then rallied. "Tea it is, then! I'll go boil the water. Make yourself at home." He bustled off through a door that Carlos assumed led to the kitchen, through which a series of sounds like the opening of cabinet doors, the clanging of pots, and muffled cursing issued. 

Carlos took the time to stroll around the room, looking at the framed pictures and other memorabilia that crowded the walls. There were several photographs, some of which appeared to be family portraits (all with blurred, indistinct faces), some of Night Vale landmarks and attractions (including, of course, several of the radio station), and one of Cecil, Old Woman Josie, one of the Erikas, and a few other townsfolk Carlos vaguely recognized, all dressed in matching bowling shirts. There was a diploma from Night Vale Community College for Cecil Gershwin Palmer, conferring a degree in broadcast journalism along with a minor in Modified Sumerian. There was a framed travel poster, enjoining him to "Visit Beautiful Luftnarp!" And there were seven gilt-edged documents in ornate frames, all reading "Official Certificate of Re-Education," printed in what looked like (but surely couldn't be) dried blood.

Cecil's resonant voice re-appeared at his shoulder. "I don't mean to brag, but seeing as how you _are_ an educated man yourself..." He chuckled a little embarrassedly. "Last time I got out of 'the box,' the director of the Attitude Adjustment Bureau herself told me that I have been re-educated more than almost any other Night Vale citizen!" He smiled, proudly.

"Oh, ah, that's -- that's very nice, Cecil."

"Thank you." He rocked back on his heels, smirking slightly, then a haunted, faraway look stole into his eyes. Then he started, as if he had just remembered why he had come into the room. "Oh, uh, the tea. I remember now that I loaned my kettle to one of my neighbors. I'll have to run and get it. It's on the other side of the building, so it may take a minute or two."

"Oh, that's okay, Cecil, please don't bother, I --"

"No, no, I don't mind a bit. Anything for you, Perfect Carlos."

"You know, Cecil, just 'Carlos' is fine. Believe me, I'm not perfect."

"Perfect _and_ modest? How incredible you are!" He gave Carlos a quick peck on the cheek and dashed out the door before Carlos could say anything further.

Carlos pressed his fingertips to his cheek, a little woozy from the contact. He coughed and blinked to clear his head, then continued his exploration of the living room.  
A number of bookshelves lined the room, and, always interested in books, Carlos wandered over to check them out. 

The first thing he noticed was that all of the books displayed a bright red "approved" sticker on the spine. Carlos sighed. He didn't understand Cecil's boundless civic devotion, especially considering how often he'd seemingly come up against the sharp, spiky end of municipal government. That was a major thing keeping them apart; he knew that even if they _did_ start something serious, Cecil would never leave Night Vale and go with him, wherever the next adventure would lead. And there _would_ be another adventure. (For instance, there was some sort of defense contractor in Oregon that had been wooing him for years with some very interesting research opportunities.) 

_Well,_ he thought, _might as well see what the City Council deems it proper for the loyal citizens to know._

He scanned the shelves. A lot of them were taken up by your standard "airport reading," John Grisham, David Baldacci, that kind of thing, a few swoony romance novels, all in battered paperback form. In slightly better shape were what appeared to be nonfiction books, mostly of the self-help variety.

_Eldritch Geometry for Dummies_

_Chant Your Way to Success!_

_The Existential Terror Diet_ \-- that one seemed to be working, at least. Cecil remained trim despite eating what appeared to be mostly junk food. Then again, Carlos had lost weight since coming to Night Vale, too, as most of the food was at best horrifying.

_You Don't Have to Leave Your Desk!: Remote Viewing for the Lazy Journalist_

_The MothMan that Loved Me: The Unauthorized, Tell-All Biography_

_Akbar's Guide to Interdimensional Travel on a Shoe String_

_The Seven Habits of Highly Infective People_

At the end of the shelf was a thin volume entitled _Sunken R'lyeh Ain't All that's Goin' Down, Mama: The Erotic Poetry of H.P. Lovecraft_. _Hmmm_ , thought Carlos, _that could be... interesting._ He picked it up and tried to read it, but as soon as he got it in his hands, it started to squirm and moan in a most embarrassing (and suggestive) way, and Carlos fumbled it back to the shelf as quickly as he could.

He had to say he was a bit disappointed. He'd thought Cecil was more intelligent than all that... that... that pablum would indicate. Ah, well, that would make it all the easier to break things off, then, wouldn't it? He sighed and rested his elbows on the bookshelf, in the process knocking over a statue of something that he couldn't quite look at without his eyes starting to tear and burn. 

He caught the strangely-warm statue before it hit the ground and carefully deposited it on one of the grandma tables, then turned back to the shelf. He saw that the statue had been covering up a small cubby cut into the back of the shelf, into which were stacked a few more books.

Eyebrow raised inquisitively, he reached into the hole. The first book he pulled out was _A Brief History of Time._ He was surprised. It was a best-seller, sure, but he wasn't sure it dovetailed neatly with the entire cosmology that made Night Vale tick. How could the City Council allow it? He turned it over and got his answer: no red sticker. They hadn't allowed it. He pulled out the next book, _On the Origin of Species_. The next one, _The Man who Mistook his Wife for a Hat_. The one after that, _Coming of Age in Samoa._ Okay, they were all kind of dated, especially that last one, but still... Eclectic mix though they were, they betrayed a desire to learn about the world outside the Night Vale orthodoxy. More importantly, none of the books were approved. 

"What are you doing, Ceese?" whispered Carlos. If the Secret Police tossed this place half as often as Cecil claimed they did, they'd be sure to find them, and he'd be in HUGE trouble. Bewildered, he peeked in the cubby one final time. Deep in the back, he saw what looked like a Day Planner. 

He pulled it out. On the leather cover was stamped the monogram CGP, and the whole affair was kept shut with a strap and a buckle, just like a million other agendas. He hated to be nosy (well, okay, he loved to be nosy, but he preferred to think of it as "scientific inquisitiveness"), but honestly, how personal could a calendar be? Feeling vaguely guilty, he undid the strap and opened the book.

Oh. That's how personal it could be. Cecil was one of those people that used his planner as a makeshift diary. Next to his appointments, each day had little scrawled comments about what had gone on, which a sniff revealed had been written in coffee, tea, soup, and other foodstuffs, to get around the municipal "writing implement ban." He smiled as he read through Cecil's commentary about his daily life, things like "Josie and the Erikas made me a sweater. Too bad it's 100 degrees today -- and every day," and "Saw Steve Carlsberg in the distance. UGH! Had to wash my eyes out with soap."

He couldn't resist turning the pages to the day that he'd come to town. On that day, Cecil had written, simply, "Fell in love." Every subsequent day, no matter what else he'd written, in between curses directed toward Desert Bluffs and records of what he'd eaten at Big Rico's, Cecil had noted "Still in love." One day a few months ago said "shopping trip to Tucson with Dana. Buy books, furry pants. Impress Carlos with science knowledge, pants." (So that's where they'd come from, and that's why there'd been no show that day.) And at the bottom? "Still in love."

On the day of their date, he'd written it so large that it took up all the space for that day's notes. Since then, he'd written it smaller and smaller, the writing getting shakier, until finally, on the space that had been reserved for that very evening, Cecil had written a longer note, in a stronger hand.

"My beautiful Carlos doesn't love me, I know that now. That's okay. I hope he stays in town anyway, and that he'll at least be my friend. My life was amazing before, but he makes my life perfect." 

Carlos read the note over several times, his heart aching. He felt sad for Cecil, because he knew that he'd hurt him with very little reason, but he finally admitted that he'd been hurting himself as well.

 _My beautiful Carlos doesn't love me_. The words hit him like a fist.

"No, Cecil, that's not true," he announced to the apartment.

"What's not true?" said Cecil from the other side of the door. 

Frantically, Carlos replaced the books and the statue, just in time to see Cecil attempting to open the door with his elbow while balancing a tea pot, two steaming cups of tea, and a plate of what may have been cookies, though it was hard to tell, given the current ban on wheat and wheat by-products. Carlos ran over and grabbed the teacups before he could scald himself, lack of pain-sensing nerves or no. 

Cecil beamed at him as if he'd just given him a kidney. "My thoughtful, wonderful Carlos. How kind and helpful you are."

"Really, Cecil, it's nothing. Where did all this come from?"

"Well, my neighbor was using my tea kettle, so then we went next door to borrow one from _her_ neighbor, and then one thing led to another, and this and that, and naturally I ended up with all this stuff."

"Oh, sure, naturally." Carlos set the tea cups down on the table, and Cecil set the teapot and the "cookies" down next to it, then looked at him expectantly.

"So, what's not true?"

"Oh, uh, that simulated bloodstones work as well as natural ones."

Cecil nodded vehemently. "I KNOW! It's a shame that unscrupulous bloodstone salesbeings are grifting innocent bloodstone consumers, isn't it?"

The pair settled down onto the floral couch, and, tentatively, as though he was afraid that he'd be rejected, Cecil curled up his legs and put his head on Carlos' shoulder. Carlos put his arm around him and gave him a gentle squeeze, and Cecil relaxed and sighed gently. It felt natural. It felt right. It felt, Carlos mused, like where he belonged. 

Just then, Carlos felt his phone buzz, eliciting a soft "Oh, damn" from Cecil. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the screen. The text took up several screens. 

"DEAR MR. OR MRS. OR (here a bunch of unintelligible, squiggling symbols) THE SCIENTIST. YOUR DOMICILE IS SATISFACTORY... FOR NOW. YOU MAY RETURN UNTIL FURTHER SEARCHES ARE DEEMED NECESSARY. THEY WILL BE DEEMED NECESSARY. YOUR PALS, THE SHERIFF'S SECRET POLICE." 

Carlos flipped the phone shut and swallowed hard. He glanced at Cecil, who was examining his nails and apparently hadn't read the text.

"What did it say?" he asked, morosely. 

"It, uh," he cleared his throat, "it said that they were still searching, that they might be there a while, maybe all night."

Cecil smiled dazzlingly and wiggled his shoulders a little. "Oh, they must like you _a lot_! They've never searched this place for more than a few hours! And that Steve Carlsberg," he continued, his voice dripping with disdain, "they won't search his shabby little ranch home **at all**."

Carlos settled back into the cushions, and let the melodious voice of his love, ranting about "aluminum siding in _dire_ need of a powerwashing and the _completely_ un-ironic use of formica" wash over him like a warm, gentle bath. He allowed himself a smile. Suddenly, staying in Night Vale for a while didn't seem so bad. Now he just had to figure out how to get rid of those books before Cecil got himself hauled off to the mineshaft...


	2. (I've Got You) Under My Skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Of handjobs, tattoos, and Kung Pao Chicken.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that Night Vale has not been mentioned as having a Chinese restaurant, but there's one at the international research station in Antarctica, so I figure they must have one. :)

Nothing happened that night. Everything happened that night.

Nothing happened that night -- in the morning, all clothing remained resolutely on the flesh it had graced hours earlier. No bodily fluids were exchanged, not even saliva.

Everything happened that night -- Carlos woke up on the couch with a warm weight on his chest and looked down to see a lightly snoring blond head, and love swelled in his ribcage until he felt like it would break open like a water balloon. And he knew he was lost -- utterly, completely, gloriously.

The back of Cecil's head was in focus, but things much beyond were blurry. He didn't have any memory of removing his glasses, but... He peered around and saw them folded together with Cecil's in a miniature bloodstone circle on a nearby end table, snuggled into each other as much as plastic and metal and polycarbonate could. He was sure that was no accident. In his mind's eye, he could see Cecil slipping them off his nose, then arranging them carefully with his own, frowning with concentration, trying to get it _just right_ as a sort of totem, a charm, before curling up at his side and falling asleep.

He needn't have bothered. However much he'd fought it over the past year, slowly and almost imperceptibly Carlos' heart had somehow become entirely enmeshed in Cecil's. He couldn't imagine trying to separate them, not without causing a fatal hemorrhage. It should have been terrifying. It WAS terrifying. But that wasn't all. It was exhilarating and wonderful and dizzying and... and...

And painful. Well, sitting in that position was, anyway. He had a crick in his neck and a stiff back, and honestly it was a little hard to breathe, since Cecil's head seemed to weigh a ton the way it pressed on his diaphragm. He hated to disturb him, though, and the moment was so peaceful, so nice... 

So... ugh. Uncomfortable.

He had to pee, a little, and had no idea where the bathroom might be. And, oh great, he had morning wood. No, there was no getting around it, he was going to have to move. He was trying to figure out how to slither from under Cecil in such a way as not to disturb him when his sleeping companion began to stir.

All of Carlos' thoughts of discomfort evaporated when those strange eyes met his. A sleepy, sexy smile crept across Cecil's face.

"Hey, there, handsome," he whispered, his normally-smooth voice undercut with a hint of gravel that made Carlos intensely aware of the throbbing between his legs. 

"Hey, there, yourself," he managed to croak back. 

Cecil "umph"-ed softly as he sat up off of Carlos. "Sorry, I, uh..." He trailed off. 

"No need." Carlos wasn't sure exactly what Cecil was apologizing for, but it didn't matter. There was absolutely nothing to be sorry about. Nothing at all. 

They sat there for a while, not talking. Maybe they were feeling awkward. Maybe they were still half-asleep. Maybe there just wasn't anything to say at the moment. Whatever it was, the silence ended with their lips drawing together, as inexorable as the tide.

Carlos breathed in deeply as Cecil's mouth met his. His fingertips, calloused from years in the lab, rasped over the smooth warm silk of Cecil's pajamas. What did he care about muscle pains or his bladder or his morning erection that quite frankly wasn't just a physiological fluke at this point? Cecil was here, and he was kissing him, and this was happening. Now.

Amazing.

Wonderful.

**Perfect.**

They sank down onto the weirdly solid and un-plushy Granny couch together. Somewhere a switch had been flipped -- the night before, minutes before, their interactions had been stilted and tentative; now they were frantic, ravenous for each other.

They tangled together. Weight shifted and -- Oof! Onto the floor. Not really much less comfortable than the couch, and hey, more room to roll around. And oh, God, their bodies fit together perfectly. Moans and gasps hung, suspended, in the arid desert air. Fingers twined in hair, twined in between the other's fingers, twined in clothing as desire and pleasure mounted.

There was _no way_ they were making it to the bedroom. 

In the end, there was time only for a hasty half-shucking of clothing before events reached an inevitable, blazing conclusion, twitching and jerking in each other's palms, shuddering in the golden morning light. 

Carlos felt like his skin had been filled with Jello. Speechless, he planted a wobbly kiss on Cecil's jaw.

Cecil, on the other hand, was rarely speechless. He lifted his face to Carlos' until they were nose-to-nose.

"And a very good morning to you, Dearest Carlos." He smiled radiantly. "I don't know about you, but I'm _starving_. What do you say to getting cleaned up, then breakfast?"

"Sounds great." 

The two men struggled to their feet ( _not as young as I used to be_ , thought Carlos), refastening and adjusting apparel as needed, suddenly just the tiniest bit bashful around each other. 

"So, uh, this way," said a blushing Cecil, motioning to Carlos. They went through the swinging door set into the side wall of the living room, into a tiny kitchen, then through that into an even tinier bathroom. There was barely enough room for the two of them to stand side-by-side. 

"Oh, uh, excuse me..."

"No, no, excuse _me_..."

"Oh, pardon..."

"Sorry, sorry..." 

They shuffled and jostled around for a few moments, both trying to get to the sink, to undress, to do whatever in a space clearly more appropriate for one body at a time. Finally, Cecil reached for the hand towel at the same time Carlos bent down to splash water on his face and ended up punching him in the ear with a surprisingly-solid fist.

"Hey!"

"Oh, no, oh, Dear Carlos, no! Oh, I'm so sorry..."

Carlos tried, unsuccessfully, to hide a smile at the incredibly stricken expression on Cecil's face. "It's okay, Ceese, I'm fine, I swear." He got a warm fizz over the visible joy Cecil got from the abbreviated form of his name. "But really, this is a ridiculously tiny room."

"Radio's glamorous, not lucrative."

"Hey, sounds like science. Except for the glamorous part." He took advantage of the close quarters to enfold Cecil in his arms. "It's... It's really nice, being this close to you." He was mildly horrified and nearly wrestled the words back into his throat as they came out, but they were true. The Second Thing a Scientist Is is Truthful. "But hey, could we, like, take turns, maybe? I have to, uh, use the facilities."

A bright red flush crept up Cecil's features, and Carlos felt himself blush in response. It was strange to be shy after having engaged in, well, sex (okay, not intercourse _per se_ , but more than Carlos had gotten in **ages** ), but there it was. They hadn't been together long enough for Carlos to pee with an audience, not by half. Some things were just plain sacred, damnit.

"Oh. OH. Yes, absolutely. Let me, uh, leave you alone. I'll be out there..." Cecil stole a quick kiss then scurried out of the room. Carlos turned on the faucet and hurriedly relieved himself as soon as his padding footsteps faded. He washed his hands, then twitched up a side of the towel that Cecil had hanging over the mirror ( _weird place to dry a towel_ ) and took a long look.

He barely recognized himself. He was, well, _glowing_. Not literally, although that would have maybe been more expected. (After all, between various forms of bioluminescence and radiation, it was a wonder that everyone in town didn't shine like a dashboard Jesus when the lights were out.) No, he was glowing metaphorically, with a stupid grin on his face that he hadn't seen in recent memory, if he'd ever been that lighthearted. It was uncharacteristic and weird and too much.

"Dial it back, there, Carlos," he instructed himself. He was a grown fucking man, not a teenager who'd just gotten his first handjob. There was no reason, no reason at all to be feeling this lovestruck. He needed to get control of himself.

He wet down his hair a bit to control the more pliant of his cowlicks and flyaway curls. _God, what does Cecil see in this rat's nest?_ he wondered. It was so weird to be so absolutely admired, worshipped, almost. It wasn't the way things worked, not in the real world. Then again, nothing in Night Vale seemed to work the way it did in the so-called "real world," so why was he even surprised? He took off his jeans and his flannel and wet them under the sink to remove any biological materials they might contain, then folded them and set them atop the hamper. He put his lab coat back on. He knew he looked kind of ridiculous in the coat, his Metallica t-shirt, and his boxers, but he didn't have a lot of other options, and he didn't think Cecil would probably mind. 

He walked from the bathroom into the tiny kitchen, and felt the flimsy walls he'd just constructed crumble once again. He vaguely wondered if he shouldn't put up missing posters looking for his lost equilibrium, then realized he'd probably end up with a whole bunch of other stray equilibria clunking around the lab, then considered he was probably losing his mind, then pushed the thoughts down (as he'd learned to do over the past year for the sake of being able to sleep without screaming).

The reason for his destroyed resolve was standing in a beam of sunlight in the middle of the kitchen, smiling even brighter than the beam and pretty blatantly checking him out. He'd removed his pajama top, leaving him with his dressing-gown and low-slung pajama pants, and giving Carlos a better view of his tattoos. 

Those tattoos. Carlos had never been a particularly big fan of ink, but he had to admit he was coming around. He found himself wanting to trace each swirl and glyph with burning lips. Now that he could see how extensive they were, he figured it to be an all day job. He didn't think he minded, but he wanted to do further research.

He walked over to Cecil and ran his fingertips lightly along the side of his neck, then slid the slippery dressing-gown from his shoulders, leaving it a puddle on the linoleum. He took a step back. Cecil hugged himself with his ropy arms, but Carlos shook his head.

"No, Ceese. Put down your arms, please? I want to look at you."

Cecil blinked at him, a bemused expression on his face. "Me? Really?"

Carlos laughed. "Yes, you. Please?"

Cecil lowered his arms, sheepishly, and Carlos drank in the sight. A gentle smattering of dark-blond hair covered a wiry chest and abdomen, illustrated with sinuous whorls of ink that coalesced in a hypnotic whole. They were almost indescribably alluring. Carlos reached out and traced along a particular favorite, a vinelike shape that started on Cecil's left wrist, meandered up his arm and across his shoulderblade, curled around his side and to the front of his ribcage and over his prominent hipbone, finally disappearing underneath the waistband of his pajama pants. Carlos had to restrain himself from following it further, especially when Cecil purred and stretched into his touch. 

"They're beautiful, Cecil."

"Oh, thank you. I don't really think about them, honestly." He frowned down at himself as if he'd forgotten the tattoos existed. 

"What do they mean? Are they tribal?"

Cecil's eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Oh, my, no! That would be pretty offensive. They're..." He shrugged. "They are what they are."

Every time Carlos looked, he saw something different. The shapes that had appeared to be random wavy lines now seemed to suggest desert animals and plants. Or were they words? Or were they -- Hey! That equation, those formulae, that diagram... This one was from his doctoral dissertation, that one from the research he had encrypted on his computer at the lab, this one from a note he'd scribbled on a napkin at Big Rico's and stuck in his back pocket... He blinked, his eyes watering slightly. Oh, no, he'd been mistaken. Just abstract shapes and swirls. He blamed the illusion on his myopia and moved on.

"Did you design them?" 

Cecil's eyes shifted furtively. "Oh, uh, I imagine so, yes." In one motion, he picked up his dressing-gown, put it back on, and turned to the three-quarters-sized refrigerator set against the wall. "Is leftover Chinese okay? I don't really have any breakfast food."

Carlos was taken aback. Cecil was many, many things, but evasive was generally not one of them. "Yeah, yeah, fine, but uh... What do you mean, you 'imagine' so? How can you not know?"

Cecil sighed and rested his head against the freezer door. Then he abruptly turned to face Carlos, familiar white cardboard containers in hand, grinning desperately. "Oh, you know how it is. Things disappear over the horizon and all that. I mean, who understands everything that happens, right? The chopsticks are in the drawer over there." He nodded toward the countertop.

"Cecil, you don't... You don't _remember_?"

Cecil stared through him, still grinning vacantly. "I think we should eat in the living room. I don't normally have guests at mealtimes, and the table's kind of covered." He gestured towards a tiny kitchen table which was, indeed, covered with papers and toothpicks and food coloring and coffee mugs half-filled with old brown sludge. On top was a legal pad with what appeared to be notes for that evening's show. Making a noise somewhere between a giggle, a sob, and a yelp, Cecil turned on his heel and skittered through the door, back into the living room.

Carlos stood alone in the kitchen for a heartbeat, brow wrinkled. This was... vaguely concerning. He waited, expecting the urge to get the hell out of there to overtake him, the need to come up with an excuse and leave and screen his calls and never look back.

The need didn't come up.

It wasn't like he was in denial, there was something weird about about the tattoo thing, about Cecil, about the whole town. And as a scientist, sure, he studied the town _because_ of that weirdness. But it wasn't like that with Cecil. He didn't want to dissect him, he wanted to... breathe with him. To occupy the same space in the universe he did. 

And if he had anything to say about it, that would come, someday. But maybe today was not that day. Maybe today was for eating leftover Kung Pao chicken on a gross, brocade grandma couch. Maybe that was okay. Maybe today was the day they hesitated hand-in-hand, then crossed over the border of this strange new country they were entering together, the country of "us."

Carlos dug around in the silverware drawer for a moment, located two pairs of paper-wrapped wooden chopsticks, and joined Cecil in the living room.


End file.
